The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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Ricci’s hut is from when I left the pieces of paper for the game. As I recall it, the pong of the muck he uses on his hair was stronger than that of the disinfectant.
Love’s young nightmare has just moved through the first row of huts and I am about to follow when suddenly there is a terrible scream from just beside me and a fat woman wearing curlers and nothing else shoots out of a hut.
“Ooh, you pig,” she yells. “You filthy, dirty old man.”
Somehow, I know what I am going to see even before I look into the hut. Dad standing there in his socks and his plastic mac, looking confused.
“I thought it was the piss-house,” he says in a slightly narky voice. “They all look the same to me. I said I was sorry. That ugly old slag doesn’t think I was trying to come it with her, does she? I’m not that bleeding desperate.”
The ugly old slag starts to scream twice as loud after that and I can see that I have another problem on my hands. Dad’s breath smells strongly of the medicine we have been giving him and he is well pissed.
“I know this old man,” I say. “He’s quite harmless, really. I think he’s a bit overtired and made a genuine mistake.”
“Dirty old devil. Do you know what he did?”
“He hasn’t been very well lately. Now, please try and calm yourself. Shouting won’t do any good. I’ll get him to bed and come back to help tidy up.”
“You want to watch it if you do, son,” says Dad. “There’s a merry widow there, mark my words. You’re just what she’s looking for. A young, fit man to gratify her disgusting old body.”
“I’m not standing for that,” shouts Lady Shagnasty. “I’m going to report this whole incident to the camp authorities.”
“You do and I’ll say you invited me in to your hut,” leers Dad. “I’ll say you begged me to do a tinkle so you could watch.”
“O-o-oh!!”
Somehow, I manage to drag the dirty old sod away and I am half wondering whether it really was an accident by the time I get him back to his hut. There is no sign of Mum and I am about to ask where she is when she comes through the door opening.
“Thank God you’re back, Mum—” I begin, and then I stop. Mum is looking quite incredible. About ten years younger and with an “over the hills and faraway” expression in her eyes. She is wearing no make-up and seems to be in some kind of trance.
“Mum,” I say quietly. “Mum, are you alright?”
“What dear?” She looks at Dad and me as if she has only just seen us. “Yes, dear. What is it?”
“You’d better be prepared for a few cold looks tomorrow morning. Dad went out to the toilet and blundered into some woman’s hut by mistake.”
I wait for the explosion but Mum just smiles and pats Dad absentmindedly on the head.
“That’s alright, dear,” she says calmly. “We all make mistakes. You’re back now.” And that is all. I go out into the night wondering what has happened to Mum. What a pity Norman and Henry Bones the boy detectives are not with us.
But, fascinated as I am by Mum, I now have to turn my attention back to Ricci and Rosie, the star-crossed lovers of Isla de Amor. I pad through the huts hearing the occasional naughty noise seeping out of the thatch until I come to a hut with an Eyetie pennant hung over the doorway. Am I too late to save a fair English rose from a fate worse than National Health glasses?
“Oh, Ricci, angel, that was fantastic,” gasps an exhausted and familiar voice. “Do it again, pl-e-e-ase!”
By the cringe, I think, as I stride swiftly away into the darkness. The Leas are really getting amongst it tonight.
The next morning finds me in Sidney’s office, but I am listening not squealing. An unhealthy shade of grey is breaking through our leader’s sun tan and he is brandishing a telegram.
“This afternoon,” he groans, “he’s coming this afternoon with the next intake. In the coach. He says he wants to be treated like an ordinary holidaymaker.”
“Taking his life in his hands, isn’t he?” I say in my normal jokey fashion.
“Piss off,” says Sidney wearily. “Don’t start being funny at this time of the morning. What are we going to do?”
“I thought you’d never ask. We’re going to have a Fasching.”
“A what?”
“A Fasching. It’s a kraut idea Ted told me about. They have a big carnival just before they give everything up for Lent. They all get pissed and have it away with each other’s wives.”
“You mean like New Year’s Eve?”
“Yeah. Only on a much bigger scale.”
“I didn’t know the Germans went in for that kind of thing.”
“Oh yes. They’re very hot on it. They like getting pissed and the rest comes naturally.”
“But is it going to work here?”
“I reckon we’ve got a good chance. You see it’s all very organised. Everybody dresses up and they have parades and beauty queens and all that kind of palava. Just like the Funfrall Camps back home. You saw how well it went last night when we got ’em a bit organised – well, you didn’t see all of it.”
“No, I slept really well last night. Out like a light when my head touched the pillow.”
“Good. I’m glad about that. Now, you see, I believe, if we lay on the booze and get back to basic principles, we could get ’em all going a treat. They were beginning to warm up last night.”
“What are we going to do for fancy dress?”
“I’ve thought about that. We’ll turn it into a South Sea Island caper. That way, they can all wear grass skirts. That should give them a few ideas. You remember that party at Maisie Simpson’s?”
“Oh yes. When her grass skirt got caught in the electric fan? That started things off alright, didn’t it?”
“Not half! I reckon if we call it a Polynesian Carnival Barbecue and elect a Carnival Queen—”
“What are we going to barbecue?”
“Some of those bloody goats.”
“Marvellous! I really think you’ve got something there, Timmo. So we’re not going to call it a Flushing?”
“Fasching! No, it doesn’t sound right, does it? And if they think it’s anything to do with the Krauts they won’t fancy it, either. It’s just the general idea we’re borrowing.”
“Great, Timmo, great. We’ll tidy up the details this morning and announce it at dinner time. Then, when Slat gets here, they’ll all be running about happily getting ready for the big night. I won’t forget this, Timmy.”
“Don’t thank me, too soon. It may not be a success.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Timmo, I can smell this one. It’s going to go like a bleeding forest fire.”
I remember those words later on, but at the time I just shuffle my feet and look modest.
When I eventually get back to my room it is to find one of the Angelos del Sole pressing my trousers. He is doing this with the help of Carmen who is lying beneath him and on top of the mattress which covers my trousers. The bloke snatches up his clobber and dives out of the window with a speed that suggests he gets a lot of practice. Too bad about that cactus, I think as I listen to the screams.
“You, very naughty girl,” I say wiggling my finger at Carmen who is now wearing her sulky expression. “My room no knocking shoppe.”
“He take me by surprise,”